


Get A Life

by Elizabeth Lowry (Suz)



Category: Starsky & Hutch
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-31
Updated: 2020-08-31
Packaged: 2021-03-06 14:42:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,421
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26220577
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Suz/pseuds/Elizabeth%20Lowry
Summary: A Starsky and Hutch fan has her fondest wish granted
Relationships: Ken Hutchinson/David Starsky
Comments: 5
Kudos: 5





	Get A Life

# GET A LIFE

by

Elizabeth Lowry

  
  


"Carol!"

"Huh?" Carol jerked her head up.

'If you want to go, then go," Junie said. "You didn't have to come in the first place."

"No, I'm okay," Carol answered. "I'm sorry." She took a final bite of steak, finishing off the large piece of meat.

"Then tell me to shut up if you don't want to listen to me," Junie continued. "But I'm tired of being ignored."

Carol turned her attention to the remaining bits of baked potato on her plate. "I guess I can't stop thinking about my vacation." She mushed up the innards of the potato. Vacation? Ha! Heaven come to earth more like it! If Junie had any idea what Carol was up to…she'd kill Carol and take her place!

"Yeah, yeah, a cabin down by the lake," Junie said. "You've told me a dozen times. With a dock and a fireplace and a kitchen, as if you could do more with a kitchen than stuff it with cans of soda and packages of cookies."

"Takes one to know one," Carol muttered.

"I know," Junie answered sullenly. She was finishing a different cut of steak and home fries. "What are you taking?" Junie asked.

Carol shrugged. "Eps, laptop, zines, the usual."

"I can't believe you're going by yourself." Junie shook her head, then finished off her baked beans.

"I have to finish my story," Carol insisted, trying not to smile crazily over what she was really up to. She pushed her cleaned plate toward the center of the table and took another roll. "Rae Ellen's got a zine coming out, Nita has her zine coming out, and I have to have a zine out at the con."

"Who's proofing?"

"You are."

"Who's printing?"

"I am."

Junie pushed her plate aside and took the last roll. "And who's binding?"

"We both are." Carol smiled.

"I can't do that anymore," Junie warned. "Stay up till 5 in the morning binding copies and unjamming the copier the day before the con."

"It'll be done the weekend before the con," Carol said.

"Sure it will," said Junie. "Sure."

"What do I do, Mr. Roarke?" Carol could barely contain her excitement. Mr. Roarke. The epitome of non-American non-blond manliness. The body of tall, dark, curly-haired gorgeous non-Jewish man. The voice of a suave, smooth, romantic Hispanic. The Master of making fantasies happen for the right price and an oceanic ticket to a lost island. All tricked out in a white suit.

"Just keep your eyes closed," said the man. "And when you open them, you will be in 1977 Los Angeles!"

Carol was so excited she barely noticed the man's accent.

"And…open them!" Mr. Roarke commanded.

Carol opened her eyes to find—she was standing on a sidewalk outside an apartment complex alongside a busy street that smelled of gasoline fumes and dry heat.

"What is this?" Carol looked around at the very mundane surroundings. "I asked for L.A.!"

"This is Los Angeles!" Roarke swept his arm along the horizon. "Or at least this area is often referred to by the general designation 'L.A.' Should you care to be totally accurate, this is properly called 'North Hollywood.'"

"North Hollywood!" Carol exclaimed. "What am I doing here?"

"Fulfilling your fantasy," Roarke answered.

"How does this fulfill my fantasy?" Carol asked. She had to speak loudly to be heard over the traffic noise.

"You asked to meet the real Starsky and Hutch," he answered. "Not the TV version, not a fan's version, but the real thing. This is the real city."

"No, it's not!" Carol complained. "It's North Hollywood!"

"Patience, patience," Roarke soothed. "This _is_ part of the fantasy."

"How?" Carol's brow furrowed.

Reaching into his inner suit coat pocket, he removed a manila envelope. "In here you will find everything you need to begin your fantasy." He handed Carol the envelope. "There are keys to your apartment, which is in the building behind you."

Carol turned and looked at the building. Very square. Very gray. Twenty feet from the curb.

"I'm afraid it's not a security building, but it's all we could do on such short notice," he continued. "The key is to a wonderfully cozy studio apartment on the third floor."

Carol fished out the key. Tarnished.

"The apartment is furnished, and I have also taken the liberty of supplying you with a few outfits of the era, particularly since you will need certain articles of clothing for your job."

"A job?" Carol asked, incredulous. "This is a _fantasy_ , not a business trip!"

Roarke chuckled. He pointed south down the boulevard. "When you come to the corner of Ventura and Coldwater, you will find a Sav-On Drug Emporium, where you have a position as a cashier. Your hours are midnight to 8 am."

"What?!" screeched Carol.

"Now, now," Roarke admonished. "You asked for realism. In fact, you insisted upon your entire fantasy being based on reality. To accomplish that, you must have a place to live and a way to make a living."

"I asked for Hutch!" Carol screamed. "Starsky and Hutch! Specifically, Hutch! You promised me I'd get Hutch!"

"And you will," Roarke said. "In good time. Reality requires cause and effect, action and reaction. This is not a piece of fiction."

Carol threw her hands in the air and turned away from her fantasy planner.

"If you wish to end the fantasy…"

Carol whirled back to face him. "No. What do I have to do?"

"Nothing more than take possession of your apartment, and show up at your job."

Carol shook the envelope and looked inside. "Where are the car keys?"

"No keys." Roarke smiled. "No car. That's what the bus information in your envelope is for. However, your Sav-On is only a mile due south, which negates the necessity for transportation."

Carol closed her eyes and pursed her lips. "What else?"

"Nothing," Roarke said. "The rest is up to you."

"When do I meet Hutch?" Carol opened her eyes and stared at Roarke.

"All in good time," he soothed. "All in good time."

Crappy apartment, crappola furnishings. But how much can you put in a studio apartment? Apparently only a sleeper sofa and a TV that was worthless because it couldn't pick up the over-the-air signals from a cable-less North Hollywood. Carol fumed. Worst of all, there was no refrigerator, because L.A. apartments don't come with refrigerators. It had taken an hour of yelling at the off-site manager to figure that out. And no air conditioning, either—another amenity that L.A. apartment living eschewed. One window peered out the side alley. And that was it. Just one window. Open, it afforded no breeze, but plenty of traffic and people noise, and a nice putrid smell. Closed, it just made things hot. Carol fumed some more.

She had paid good money for this fantasy—everything she had, in fact. Which wasn't much, as cash-on-hand and savings had always taken a back seat to more important fannish pursuits. But it was worth everything and more if it gave her what she had always dreamed of—a meeting with her hero of all time, her crush, her inamorata: her soul mate.

After all, she had studied this man for decades. She _knew_ she knew him better than he knew himself. Carol knew his habits, his history; his likes and dislikes, what he did during his time off and what he did during his working hours. And she knew he was what she had always looked for in a man: physical beauty, moral decency, a desire to protect those who needed a protector; commitment to not only his work but his friends and himself. He was educated, he was athletic, he was refined, and he was romantic. All character traits that dampened Carol's panties.

And as certain as she was that she knew this man, she was just as certain he would see similar traits in her. Carol railed over injustice, just as he did. She was intelligent and sharp, just as he was. She loved nature and the outdoors, and enjoyed camping as much as he did. And maybe she wasn't quite as good looking as the typical woman he normally dated, but she knew that deep down inside he believed in inner beauty over outer beauty, especially when it came to serious relationships, as opposed to one- or two-night stands.

Carol's fuming turned to excitement and nervousness as she realized her fantasy was actually going to become a reality! She fumbled through the few items Mr. Roarke had left her. Work schedule, bus schedules, apartment number, fifty bucks—and that was it. The rest was up to her, she supposed. Then so be it. She'd see where this set-up led her.

Two nights of the midnight shift and Carol was ready to kill. Preferably Mr. Roarke, although she'd happily substitute the idiot who'd signed her up for this calamity. The Sav-On had been straight down the street, a mile or so on foot, just as Mr. Roarke had said. As she half-expected, everyone acted as if she had worked there for quite some time, although no one acted as if they were her friends. She'd fumbled through two nights of working an old cash register, stocking shelves with items she hadn't seen since her teen-age years, and gaping in horror at smelly drunks, scary mental cases, and other assorted denizens that inhabited that world of the night in the Valley. During her two days, she'd slept fitfully, the heat and the daylight screwing around with her body's metabolism. And as for food, it was either fast food or something from the grocer across the street that could last without a refrigerator. Carol thought about walking up and down Ventura Boulevard, just to get a feel for the times, which would be priceless research for her writing. But it was too hot to do that. She wasn't much of a walker anyway.

Night three promised to be another shift of trying to stay awake. Carol sighed. If nothing happened tonight, she was calling the whole thing off, demanding her money back, and threatening to go public with Roarke's clandestine shenanigans. Except Carol knew she wouldn't go public; it would just bring attention to fandom and fan activities and especially slash, and she couldn't have that.

At some point, while re-stocking Aisle 3, she went into an upright doze. Somebody rudely awakened her by pushing her to the floor, then yelling insanely at her to _movemovemove_. Carol scrambled just ahead of the male's insistent voice and foot, her heart tripling its beat and her lungs halving their capacity. She was herded to the back of the store, where her co-workers cowered under the trembling barrel of a Saturday Night Special.

It was chaos, at least in Carol's brain. Shouts, threats, demands, adrenaline, blurred vision, and loss of coordination enveloped her, and, finally, a blood-and-brain spattered Sav-On employee shirt.

Carol couldn't breathe, couldn't speak, couldn't move. It was the night manager's body parts attached to her clothing, and it took the un-bloodied front cashier to find the nerve to crawl to the pharmacy and dial the operator for help after the thieves fled.

Carol didn't know how long she sat on the floor, only conscious of looking at anything but the night manager. It took a rather surly uniformed officer to bring her back to the present and move her behind the pharmacy counter.

"Yaaaaaaaagh!" Carol finally screamed.

"What the hell was that?" said the policeman.

"Delayed reaction," answered his partner, eying Carol.

Carol herself wasn't so sure what kind of reaction it was. She was terrified by the violence, revolted by the brutality, and furious with Mr. Roarke for ravaging her fantasy. It all so sickened her she might have thrown up, but she'd already soiled herself, and that was gross enough.

"Aw, shit, the detectives are here," someone called from the front of the store. "Better put things back if you moved them."

Carol squirmed uncomfortably in the chair on which she'd been plopped. Her heart was still triple-timing, and her blood pressure, normally a little high, was soaring.

And then, her heart stopped and her blood pressure disappeared.

_He_ walked into the store.

He was beautiful.

Blond, gorgeous; tall, trim; unshaven, blurry-eyed; and rumpled in the manner of a bachelor who needs a woman's touch.

If Carol's pants hadn't already been moist, they would have been now.

"Does she know something?" he asked a uniform. "Do you know something?" he turned to her. And blew cigarette smoke in her face.

He was smoking.

Carol coughed.

"Shit, Hutch, of course she knows something." A dark brunette entered the room. "Look at her front." This man pulled a very tattered notebook from his jacket pocket. "I'm Detective Starsky, this is Detective Hutchinson. What's your name?"

"Carol Hanley," Carol remembered.

"What can you tell us about what happened?"

_Oh god,_ Carol thought. _I see it all now. The perfect fantasy. I'm the victim and he's the white knight._ She nearly panted. _I'm in distress and he's going to comfort me and protect me and…and…oh godohgodohgod…._

Carol threw up.

"Jesus, Joseph, and Mary!" Hutch stumbled backwards. "Aw, shit, I just bought these boots!" Hutch stomped out of the pharmacy, shouting at someone to tell him where the towels were.

Starsky looked around. "Is there a bathroom in here?"

"Yeah, man, in the back," someone answered.

Starsky turned to Carol. "Umm, maybe you could clean up a little before we talk."

Carol nodded numbly.

Hutch was magnificent, but Starsky in person was quite the fine figure. Hair tangled because it was too long, beard aborning, stained shirt and jeans, and the incredibly familiar smell of day-old body odor and stagnant sweat. And cigarette smoke?

"Could, uh, somebody show this woman the bathroom?" Starsky wandered off.

Somebody—Carol wasn't really paying attention—actually grabbed her arm and led her to the bathroom. Once inside, Carol gingerly removed her Sav-On top and black pants, washed what she could off her body, and cleaned herself up as best she could. It wouldn't do for Hutch to see or smell her in such condition; it might delay their soul-connection.

Carol adjusted the blouse she'd had on under her official top, stuck some paper towels in the crotch of her pants, took a deep breath to steady herself, and went back to the pharmacy.

Starsky met her. "Okay, just tell me what you saw."

"Um, where's Hu—Detective Hutchinson?" Carol looked around.

Starsky looked around and shrugged. "What did you see?"

"Well, um," Carol continued to look around. "There was this guy and he, um, kicked me and we were all in the back and he shot the manager."

"What did he look like?" Starsky had yet to actually write down anything in his notebook.

Carol's eyes narrowed. "Um, I don't know." _Where was Hutch?_

Starsky sighed. "White? Black? Chicano? Short? Tall? Fat? Skinny?"

"Maybe skinny," Carol nodded. "They were both skinny."

"There were two of them?" Starsky shut his eyes, and opened them with what seemed incredible effort. "Height? Weight? Age? Hair color?"

Carol's brow furrowed. She knew it was up to her to keep this fantasy on track. "Maybe I could remember better if your partner was here."

Starsky looked blandly at Carol, then pointedly gazed out toward the front of the store. "Groovy," he muttered under his breath. He pocketed his notebook and meandered off into the drug store. "Hutchinson!" Carol heard him call. "Front and center. You've fucking magnetized another one."

Hutch reappeared, holding a wad of paper towels, eyes fixed on his boots. "What?" he muttered. "Can't you take the goddamn statement yourself?"

Carol winced. There was far too much swearing and cursing coming out of that magnificent mouth. Out of both their mouths. And the cigarettes! Where did they come from?

Carol straightened her posture, trying to look helpless and appealing. "I think I remember what they looked like."

Hutch finally looked up at her. Brilliant blurry-blue eyes captured Carol's green (okay, muddy hazel) eyes. "Okay, okay." Hutch dropped his wad on the floor and began patting down his pockets. "Fuck. Anybody got some paper and a pencil?" he called.

"Oh, here!" Carol quickly spotted some paper and a pen on the pharmacy counter. She picked them up and offered them to Hutch. They items quivered in her hands.

Hutch grabbed them and steadied the paper in his palm. "Shoot."

"Well," Carol began, "one was about twenty, about five feet and seven inches tall, and about 120 pounds."

"Race?" Hutch asked. His fingers were yellow.

"White," Carol answered, trying to make her eyes sparkle, ignoring the cigarette stains.

"And the other one?" Hutch never looked up from his jottings.

"White, too." Carol paused. And paused.

And paused.

Hutch finally looked up at her.

_Rapture!_

"And?" Hutch said.

"Well, he was about the same height, and about the same weight, and about the same age."

"Coloring?"

"Both chestnut brown," Carol offered. "With glints of bronze, like your partner."

Hutch raised an eyebrow and stared at Carol.

"Brown," Carol backed off. She self-consciously stroked her own blonde (okay, dishwater) hair.

"Anything else?" Hutch looked downright bored.

"No," Carol said. "Um, don't you want to bag my top as evidence and get DNA samples and stuff like that?"

Hutch's eyes bored into her. "Excuse me?" he glared.

Carol mentally slapped her own head. "Don't you want to take me down to headquarters and have me look at mug shots?"

Hutch lowered his pen and paper and continued to glare at Carol. "No, that won't be necessary tonight." He paused. "You have a peace officer in the family?"

Carol tried to contain a smile. "No," she replied. "I just read a lot and study, and, um—no." She studied the vertical furrow in Hutch's brow. You could get lost in that furrow…. "Shouldn't you give me your card so I can call you if I remember something?"

Hutch thought a second. "Sure, okay." He patted down his pockets and came up empty-handed. "Starsky!" he shouted.

"What!" came a reply from deep in the store.

"Card!" Hutch answered.

"Birthday or sympathy?" Starsky yelled back.

Hutch looked distinctly unamused. "Now!" he growled.

Carol could barely contain a snicker.

Hutch continued to eye her. "You like hamburgers?"

She wasn't confused as to why he'd asked that question. He was feeling her out.

Carol's heart skipped a beat. She thought out her answer carefully. "Veggie burgers." She cast her line. "Lots of sprouts and avocados and other health foods."

Hutch shut his eyes and shook his head as if to clear it.

Starsky walked up to them. "Card." He handed it to Hutch.

Hutch refused to take it, and pointed at Carol. Starsky offered it to Carol, who took it as if it were a communion wafer.

"Let's go," Hutch turned and walked out of the pharmacy.

Carol needed bigger bait. "He threatened me," she blurted.

"What?" Starsky looked surprised.

"He said he'd find me and kill me if I talked." Carol spun her reel.

Hutch turned, but stayed where he was. "Which one?"

Carol gazed as vulnerably at Hutch as she could. "The tall one."

"I thought you said they were both the same height," Hutch said.

"The—taller—one. He was more tallish." Carol was beginning to feel light-headed in the presence of such male perfection.

Starsky folded his arms across his chest. "I wouldn't worry too much, ma'am."

"'Miss'," Carol corrected.

"Miss," Starsky repeated pointedly, "these turkeys aren't going to know who you are or where you live. They were just trying to scare you."

"But they might," Carol insisted. She cast about desperately. "I think they, uh, took my purse! With my I.D. in it!"

"Where do you keep your purse?" Starsky asked, maybe not as gently as he might.

"In the back," Carol pointed in the general direction of the break room.

"Let's go look." Starsky took a step forward.

"Carol! Here's your purse!" An abnormally cheerful co-worker appeared with Carol's purse. "Mine, too! They didn't take them!"

Carol mentally used Hutch's Magnum to shoot a bullet through the cheerful co-worker's cranium.

"Maybe you could check on me." Carol grabbed at a pharmacy pad and pen. "You might need to call me and have me look at your mug books, or do a line-up or something." Carol shakily wrote her name, address and phone number on the pad. Then she crumpled it up and started again. She'd written her _real world_ address and number. They needed her _fantasy_ address.

"What's on that first paper," Starsky asked.

"Oh, I moved recently," Carol equivocated. "That was my old address. Here's my new." She stepped past Starsky and handed it to Hutch.

Hutch glanced at it and shoved it in his pocket. "Thank you." He remembered his manners.

"We'll be in touch," Starsky said his good-byes.

Hutch glared at him.

"Call me anytime!" Carol offered. "I'm either at home or here. Stop by. Anytime."

Starsky nodded. "Thanks again for your cooperation." He took a few backward steps, then turned and made a gesture she'd never seen before to his partner.

The corners of Hutch's mouth turned up. "Hamburger queen," she heard Hutch whisper.

Yes! Carol thought to herself. He picked up on the health food thing! Yes!

"Where are you going?" It was the drugstore manager.

Carol paused, the back door to the store open. She was grinning like an idiot, she knew. But she didn't care.

"The police called. They want me to come down and look at a line-up." She hefted her purse up on her shoulder. She could barely stand still.

"Go after your shift. This is work time."

Carol jiggled her leg. "I've only got an hour until I'm off. They want me down there now."

Which wasn't exactly true; Mr. Roarke had showed up as a customer just a while ago and told her to take a bus downtown and there would be a lineup awaiting her once she got to Parker Center. At least he was making things happen now; it'd been two days since The Meeting.

"Leave now, leave the job behind," explained the manager.

Carol didn't care. She left.

Two buses and an hour and a half later, Carol managed to find her way to the correct floor of the correct building of the correct downtown. The "supporting cast" of citizens had been barely helpful in her trek, but at least they all seemed to know she _was_ supposed to be here, in _his squad room_ , for a bad-guy lineup.

Carol waited patiently in the squad room, although the other detectives had looked at her funny as she sat in each chair at _his_ table and caressed the tabletop in front of each position. And they seemed ready to handcuff her to a seat after she stroked the piggy bank and looked in each empty coffee cup. Her boys weren't here yet, but that gave Carol plenty of time to study their place. _His_ place.

"What the fuck, Simmons?" Hutch came crashing through the squad room door, Starsky hot on his heels. "You have Dispatch radio us and tell us to come back and run a simple line-up that any meter maid could handle?"

He was beautiful.

Simmons didn't bother to look up, but merely jerked a thumb back toward an office door. "Dobey said."

"Shit fuck cocksucker," Starsky muttered under his breath.

Hutch was, to say the least, disheveled. His hair was limp and rather oily, there was clearly (for a blond) stubble on his cheek, his eyes were red, and he smelled. Or maybe Starsky smelled; he was just as unkempt as Hutch.

Carol blinked a couple of times. They reminded her of the guys who hung out at the convenience store where she bought her Slurpees. Dirty and stinky and not appealing.

Hutch? Not appealing? Carol recalibrated her inner fan. Hutch was beautiful, no matter what.

It was just his smell that wasn't beautiful.

"You the witness?" Hutch pointed his beautiful finger at her.

"Yes." Carol smiled her biggest and brightest at Hutch. "Remember me? I saw the murder at the Sav-On a few nights ago."

Hutch squinted at her.

"We got Room B." Starsky hung up the telephone. "Let's get this over with." He grabbed the squad room door and opened it. "Ma'am?" He held it open for Carol.

"Miss." Carol grabbed an opportunity and clutched Hutch's arm. His jacket was kind of greasy, but Carol held on tight. "I'll follow you, Detective."

Hutch frowned at the hand on his arm, frowned at Starsky, then sighed and led Carol to the lineup room.

Carol squinted at the men behind the one-way mirror. They all looked—guilty. All white, all slender, all guilty. And she was supposed to pick one as the man who'd splattered body insides all over her? For a brief moment it occurred to Carol that perhaps one of these men was playing out his own fantasy, and Mr. Roarke was running a multi-player game of some sort. And if that were the case, what did it matter who she picked?

"I just can't tell." Carol, no fool, knew if she picked someone that would be the last line-up she and Hutch would share.

Starsky was leaning against the back wall, feet crossed, eyes closed.

Hutch ran a hand over his face. "Take your time," he lied.

"No, he's not here." Carol looked at Hutch with sadness, pretending to be upset she couldn't solve his case for him.

Starsky scratched his balls and pushed off the wall. "Okay, then. We're done."

"Told you," said a short little public defender, who quickly left the room.

"Done is done," muttered Hutch. He looked at Starsky. "Let's see if we can't make it home this time before someone calls us back."

"Uh," Carol interrupted.

"Ma'am?" Hutch turned toward her but didn't look at her.

Carol thought quickly. "I need to go home."

"Don't we all," mumbled Starsky. He had his hand on the room's doorknob.

"I mean," Carol said, "I need a ride home. I don't have a car."

"There's a bus stop at the corner," prodded Starsky.

"I don't have any more money," Carol spit out. "I used the last I had to take the bus down here."

Hutch shifted his weight. "We'll have a uniform take you home."

"No!" Carol said, a little too quickly. "I mean, it isn't just that I used up my last dollar to come here for your lineup, but I got fired from my job because I told them it was more important to take a stand against violent crime and identify a murderer than to keep a stupid job, even if it is my only job."

Hutch rubbed his brow.

"Money just isn't anything compared to a human life, you know?" Carol tried to look pitiful but valiant at the same time.

"Where do you live?" Hutch grunted.

"North Hollywood," Carol nearly squealed.

"Out of our way," Starsky stage-whispered.

"I'm really nervous with that killer out there still," Carol said. "I keep thinking he's following me and wanting to kill me because I saw his face."

"You done?" A rotund black man had shoved Starsky back as he thrust his entire body into the room. Carol thrilled at the entrance of _the_ Captain Dobey. The Protector of her Perfect Pair. The Defender of her Daring Duo.

And my goodness, he _was_ a bit overweight, wasn't he? Carol thought. And his face was a little…different. And his voice was more…throaty and deep. And was that a racing form in his jacket pocket?

"Yes, Captain," said Starsky.

"Then what are you still doing in here?" That raspy voice…oh my gosh…it was the First Dobey! The pony-playing Dobey!

"Nuthin', Captain," said Starsky.

Carol stepped forward. "I need a ride home." It was a naked plea.

Dobey looked at Carol, looked at Starsky, then at Hutch. He grinned. "Well, take the young lady home!" he ordered. He chuckled and left the room.

Starsky and Hutch looked at each other. "We could grab dinner at Art's Deli on the way back," suggested Starsky.

A pained look crossed Hutch's face. "Too Hollywood." He strode out of the room, Starsky following, Carol trying to catch up.

"Thanks for walking me up," said Carol, as she fumbled for her door key. She was trembling. She was nervous. And she was as excited as she'd been at the discovery of her first zine. She was having no luck inserting the key into the lock.

Hutch grabbed for the key. His rough hand touched hers. She nearly fainted.

But he couldn't manage to get the key inserted, either. _How Hutch!_ thought Carol.

Starsky finally grabbed the key and unlocked the door. Except the key had locked the door, making it obvious that the door had been unlocked.

Starsky stuck his hand under his jacket, holding tightly to the doorknob. Hutch shoved Carol back down the hallway and found his own jacketed weapon.

Carol nearly died from excitement.

Hutch nodded.

Starsky quickly opened the door and jumped into the room. Hutch followed. Carol followed as well.

She'd left the door unlocked when she left last night. She'd just now remembered that.

With only one room and a small bathroom, the two leanly-muscled detectives quickly secured the studio and holstered their guns.

It was all Carol could do to catch her breath. But her fanfic brain was working. She looked around, frowning. "I think someone has been here."

Starsky looked around. There was almost nothing in the apartment, except fast food containers and soda cans pushed into a corner. "How can you tell?" he asked.

"I just can," Carol huffed. She turned to Hutch. "He knows where I live!" She put a quaver in her voice. "He's going to kill me! I can't stay here! He's going to kill me!" She flung herself at Hutch.

His chest was hard, his body was warm, his stench was nauseating.

She grabbed him as tightly as she could.

Starsky had to turn his back to squelch his guffaw.

Hutch's hands hovered in the air, unable to find a resting place. "Uh, ma'am," Hutch said.

Carol managed a muffled sob.

"Uh," Hutch's hands finally held her shoulders. Lightly.

Carol nearly creamed in her pants.

"Uh, I really don't think you're in any danger." Hutch's hands were trying to pull her off him. "The lock wasn't broken or jimmied. Probably your apartment manager came in to check on something."

Carol moaned. She continued to cling to Hutch. He was—so big.

Starsky choked on another laugh.

"Really, ma'am, I think it's okay here." Hutch was being more forceful in his attempts to free himself. He had her upper arms and was trying to release himself.

"Yeah, really…Miss." Starsky was now walking toward them. He was behind her, with his hands on her shoulders.

Carol briefly lost consciousness.

Starsky was pulling her off Hutch as Hutch was pushing her when Carol came to. She had let go of Hutch.

Hutch was finally freed. He took two steps back from Carol. Starsky remained behind Carol, his hands still on her shoulders.

"Look, lady," Hutch held his hands out, palms forward. "You're fine. This apartment is fine. If you don't feel safe, we'll drive you to a friend's house or a hotel or something. That's all we can do for you."

Carol suddenly slumped, and Starsky released her. He walked around her and back to his partner. "Let's go. I'm hungry," he muttered to Hutch.

"Okay, lady?" Hutch spread his hands. Both he and Starsky were backing toward the door. "Someone tries to bother you, you call the precinct. They'll send a black and white out."

Carol nodded mutely. Clearly, she was not going to be able to keep them there with protestations of helplessness. There wasn't even enough danger around to pretend. Another course was called for.

Starsky and Hutch left the apartment, Starsky extolling the glories of cheese blintzes all the way.

As expected, the Sav-On had dumped Carol's ass for leaving early and then not getting in touch with them for another two days. Two days' of McDonald's Styrofoam cartons littering the apartment. But it had been a profound disappointment to discover Hutch hadn't responded to her "damsel in distress" mode—although, looking back, it had been a wan attempt. She should have set things up better. If that murder guy wasn't coming after her, she should have at least made it seem that way.

Mr. Roarke had helped her see that. After giving him what for about the money she'd given him, he'd pointed out the flaws in her, well, non-plan, then come up with the next step: seduction.

She must now show Hutch she was more than just a drug store working stiff, she was a woman of substance— _his_ kind of substance. Mr. Roarke had explained that fantasies weren't just _given_ , they were _attained_. And he was right—Hutch would only really want her as a full and complete woman, not some one-dimensional beautiful body.

So with her last paycheck, Carol found herself a pair of groovy bell bottoms and a peasant blouse with elastic neckline and elastic empire waist. She plotted out the bus schedule from North Hollywood to Venice Beach, and planned an early morning arrival to coincide with his coming home after work. That way, they'd have the whole day together before he had to go back to his late shift. And if for some reason he didn't come home after work, she'd just hang around until he did get home. She knew Venice. She'd seen it on the show.

So, at 4:30 am Carol waited on Ventura Boulevard for the bus going east, which would take her to the bus going south, which would transfer her to a bus going a slightly different south, then a bus going further east to the beach. She had on her new jeans and top, a pair of platforms that added two inches to her 5-foot height, and a case of goose flesh. Because no one had told her it actually did get cold in California sometimes and she'd never bothered to buy a jacket. She should have brought her Starsky sweater, which another fan had knitted for her. But she'd been afraid of being too obvious.

Two-and-a-half-hours later, Carol was wandering Washington Boulevard trying to find Venice Place. Which didn't exist in "real" Los Angeles. Carol just kept heading toward the ocean until she came across Abbott Kinney, which jogged her memory, and finally led her to the beautiful building known as "Hutch's Place."

The street was lined with cars, and the school across the street was open for business. She wandered up and down the sidewalk, just staring at the beautiful building, hoping no one thought she was casing the joint. Then she got up the courage to walk up to the front door and peek inside. Then she'd timidly opened the door and stared at the stairs leading up to—The Apartment. Then she'd backed off and paced in front of the beautiful building again. And finally, she'd tiptoed up the steps to—The Apartment.

As quietly as possible, Carol moved up to the door. She put her ear up to the door, but heard nothing. Carol looked around surreptitiously, then rose on her toes and reached up to the door lintel.

She could reach, but just barely. And she wasn't stable enough to feel around for a key. So she looked around again—then jumped. And landed. Quietly.

Or as quietly as she could. But as she waited for any reaction to her soft thud, none came. So she jumped again. And again.

It took six jumps to find the key—she'd started at the wrong end of the lintel. But holding that little piece of metal in her hands was as arousing as being in Hutch's presence. She cradled it in her palm, stroked it, memorized its indentations. Then she inserted it into the door.

The door opened quietly, ushering her into the room's beautifulness. The room smelled of stale beer, pizza—and cigarettes? She moved a few feet inside the room. There was an unsteady stack of records in one corner, along with a guitar laying on its frets. A record on the record player was spinning silently, the needle stuck on the end of the groove. The couch was covered with discarded items of apparel, with an unappetizing pile of white socks guarding the end. A few more steps and she discovered the small table covered in empty pizza boxes and goopy Chinese takeout cartons. And cans of beer and Tab.

Carol walked slowly around the table, her finger trailing the wood edge. So homey. Her walk took her to the sink, in which she saw empty coffee mugs and grimy flatware and a blender that appeared to be covered in green slime. And cigarette butts. Lots of cigarette butts.

Carol sniffed. This place needed a woman's touch.

She reached over and opened the refrigerator. Beer. And more beer. No fruits, no vegetables, not even any condiments. And it was not only dirty, but stinky. Carol shut the door, her nose wrinkling. She walked a little further to look out into the greenhouse.

Various plants were in various stages of death. There was an overturned bench in the middle of the deck, and a pile of soil toward the end. Lots of dirt-caked gardening tools were littered everywhere. And there was a healthy covering of spider webs on everything.

Carol took a few steps back, and fell backward onto the sofa. She rolled off and landed quietly in a pile of stinky t-shirts. Another roll and she was sitting with her back against a wood post, looking back toward the bedroom and bathroom. And noticed the bedroom door.

So the bedroom did have a door! Could there be other differences in the floor plan of Hutch's apartment? Carol would have to explore all the nooks and crannies of the room…as well as the nooks and crannies of the blond god inside the room….

It was then she heard the sounds of laughter, giggling and yelping. They were coming from the bedroom.

Carol stood, using the post as a support. Her heart was racing but her lungs didn't seem to be functioning. He couldn't be—Hutch couldn't be—having sex? With someone? He wasn't supposed to be home yet. She cocked her head and listened more carefully. She could make out a male voice and a female voice—and it sent her blood pressure soaring!

Roarke hadn't said anything about a girlfriend! There shouldn't _be_ a girlfriend; this was _her_ fantasy! _She_ was supposed to be his girlfriend!

Trembling, she walked very softly over to the bedroom door. Fists clenched, she was furious at Roarke's betrayal! How dare he allow another woman to be with Hutch! And it was probably another fan! He'd probably double-booked them to make more money!

Carol let her weight fall against the doorjamb, and she forced her fist to unclench so she could rotate the knob and ease the door open just enough to see—

On the bed, a buxom brunette, supine, back arched, hands holding tight to the brass headboard, head thrown back because—

Starsky was plowing deep inside her, his right hand on her thigh, his left hand on—

Hutch's thigh, as Hutch stood behind him and was clearly plowing deep inside Starsky.

Carol let out a screech and fell ass-backwards into the living room.

In an amazing display of dexterity, Hutch disengaged from Starsky who disengaged from the woman who also let out a screech and rolled off the bed.

It was to Carol's credit that she had the wherewithal to note the lovely forms in front of her. Although they weren't nearly as impressive as she had expected. Starsky was kind of grayish, and Hutch was just, well, stringy.

Within seconds, Starsky had grabbed Carol under her armpit and hauled her upward and backward onto the couch. Hutch could be heard fumbling around somewhere in the living room, letting loose a series of swear words Carol couldn't even keep up with.

"Here!" Hutch shouted triumphantly, suddenly in front of Carol and pointing a very large Magnum straight at her forehead.

"Don't shoot!" Carol shrieked. She put her hands up in front of her face defensively and shut her eyes.

When she opened them, there were now _two_ guns pointed at her. And two very angry, naked detectives.

"Who the fuck are you?"

"What the fuck are you doing here?"

"What the fuck do you want?"

"How the fuck did you get in?"

A litany of _fucks_ assaulted Carol.

Carol waved her hands in front of the guns. "It's me, Carol! I'm Carol, remember?"

The two guns didn't waver.

"Carol?" Starsky said. "You're the nutjo-, lady from the lineup?"

"Yes!" Carol said. "I'm her! It's me! I'm me! I'm here!"

Both Hutch and Starsky eased back, but both guns were still on target.

"What the fuck are you doing here?" Starsky growled.

Carol crossed her hands across her bosom. "I came here to—I got scared and I—that guy who wanted to murder me—I needed protection!"

Hutch rolled his eyes and backed off, dropping his weapon to his side. Starsky kept his leveled.

"Shit, lady, are you crazy?" Hutch said. "You can't just fucking break into my apartment and think I'm going to protect you!" He rubbed his temple with the barrel of the gun. "How the fuck did you find me anyway?"

Carol swallowed hard. "One of the officers at the precinct told me where you lived."

"Which shithead did that?" Starsky asked.

"I don't know," whimpered Carol. "Just whoever I talked to on the phone."

"Shit," replied Starsky.

"How'd you get in?" Hutch was still holding his gun, but using it more as a prop than a weapon.

"The key over the door," Carol said.

"How the fuck did you know I keep a key over the door? Have you been following me?" Hutch's prop steadied into a weapon.

"I just—I guessed. It's where I keep mine." Carol looked back and forth between the two men—or rather, between their two appendages.

"Fucking nutjob," Starsky muttered, finally lowering his gun. He turned and walked back into the bathroom.

Hutch shook his head. "Why me?" he asked no one in particular. "What do I do to get this? Why do they always come after me?" He addressed himself to Starsky, who emerged from the bathroom with a towel wrapped around his hips. Starsky tossed Hutch a towel, who dropped his gun as he fumbled to catch it. The gun, unfortunately, went off.

Both Carol and the still-hiding woman screamed.

"Aw, shit, Hutchinson, now we gotta report that." Starsky bent over and picked up the Magnum, clicking on the safety.

"Where'd it go this time?" Hutch mumbled, walking toward the far wall. "Fucking drywall. Landlord's going to crucify me."

Carol stood up. Starsky watched her from the corner of his eye, but didn't make any moves toward her.

"I'm sorry," Carol offered, her arms now folded across her bosom. "I didn't mean to break in. I just wanted to see you. To talk to you."

"About what?" Hutch whirled on her. "The case? The case is over as far as you're concerned. You're a fucking worthless witness. You couldn't identify a pimple on your nose."

Carol flushed. Her skin had never been flawless, but it was fairly clear right now. Certainly her nose was smooth. For today.

A brunette, wrapped in a sheet, suddenly appeared in the bedroom door.

"What the fuck is this?" she demanded. "What's that cunt doing here?" Her face was flawless, including her nose.

"Cathy." Starsky started toward the bedroom, but Cathy slammed the door in his face.

"Okay, lady." Starsky now whirled on her. "You're out of here. Let's go. Move." He reached for her arm.

Carol kept out of his reach and stepped back toward Hutch.

Hutch backed away from Carol. "What do you want?" he asked wearily. "Why?"

Carol reddened deeper. Her fury was quickly turning to humiliation. What was the deal with Roarke? Where was her fantasy?

"I like health foods," she said. "And vegetarian foods. And circuit training—I mean jogging. Like you."

Starsky snickered. "Yeah, those fast food bags were full of really healthy food." He walked over to the door and put his hand on the doorknob.

"Lady," Hutch began.

"And I like taking care of kids and taking care of people in need," Carol broke in. "We like the same things!"

Starsky turned the knob.

Hutch sat down heavily in a wooden chair. "Look, lady—"

"We're meant for each other!" Carol cried. Tears were beginning to brighten her eyes. "We're supposed to be together! We have to be together! I was promised!"

Starsky opened the door.

"Promised?" Hutch asked.

"Can't you see?" Carol walked up to Hutch. "We have the same soul! We're soul mates! This is supposed to be for me!"

Starsky abandoned the door and strode over to Carol. He took her upper arm. Tightly.

"Listen to me, you crazy bitch." Starsky spoke low and deep. "You come around here again, you come around my partner again, and I'm going to put a bullet through your brain. You get that?"

Carol tried to pull away, but couldn't.

Hutch rose and put his hands out, trying to calm the situation. "Okay, easy. Everybody take it easy." He started pacing, scratching his head.

After a few paces, he stopped and faced Carol. "I want to be clear on this. I'm not interested in you. I'm not attracted to you. We are _not_ soul mates."

"But we are!" Carol cried.

"No!" Hutch's voice became louder. "There is nothing about you I like! You're clingy and you're whiny and you probably lied about witnessing anything at the shooting. Not to mention you've been following me around like a crazy person."

"But I wasn't _following_ you," Carol tried to explain. "I just took a bus over here once!"

Hutch shut his eyes, his brow furrowed.

Carol felt her courage come back. That furrow meant he was thinking. That furrow meant he was coming to the truth.

Hutch opened his eyes and stood straight and steady. "Lady, make sure you listen to this: I don't like you. I don't want you. You are short and big and your hair is half black and half yellow and the black half is straight and the yellow half is kinky. You probably haven't seen a dentist in 10 years and you bite your fingernails. I'm not interested. Do you hear: I AM NOT INTERESTED."

The words went through Carol's heart like a telephone pole through a tree in a tornado.

"ROARKE!" she screamed.

Starsky started to pull her toward the door. "I am not fucking doing this again." He was speaking to Hutch. "The next time this happens, I am not fucking helping you get rid of whatever crazy bitch fucks around with you."

"ROARKE!" Carol continued to scream, as Starsky tossed her out the door.

"Yes?" It was the dulcet tones of the Spaniard.

Carol steadied herself and blinked several times. They were on the sidewalk in front of the formerly beautiful building that housed Hutch's Apartment.

"You bastard, I am going to kill you!" Carol exploded, all her rage and humiliation focused on the man in the white suit. "I'm going to sue your ass for every penny you've got and put you out of business! I'm going to tell everyone you are a fraud and a fake! I'm going to—I'm going to—I'm going to sic the IRS on you!" she sputtered.

"Oh, come now." Roarke adjusted his lapels. "Let's not be bitter, shall we? You got what you asked for. Your fantasy has been fulfilled." He shot his cuffs.

Carol screamed as loudly as she could, putting every ounce of energy her body still had into a gut-ripping screech.

"There, there," soothed the Spaniard, patting her on her shoulder. "Let it all out. You'll feel better."

"Feel better?" Carol whirled away from him. "How can I feel better when you cheated me out of my fantasy? A fantasy I paid good money for!"

"Well, we could quibble over _good money_ ," Roarke murmured. "But let's not. Let's simply go over the contents of your contract: You asked to meet the 'real' Detectives Starsky and Hutchinson. And you did. Contract fulfilled."

Carol felt nauseated from her adrenaline-fueled anger. Or maybe her recent rejection.

"I wanted _Hutch_." She broke down in tears. "We were meant for each other! We believe in the same things! We have the same values! We're soul mates!"

"Oh, my lovely young lady, oh no." The dark and handsome Roarke put his hands on Carol's shoulders and tried to soothe her. "Don't you see, this man is committed to his career, his partner, not to a woman of substance." He smoothed her hair. "This man looks to women for sexual release, not sexual intimacy. He wants beauty to reflect his own beauty, and to show other men how far above them he is."

Carol sobbed.

Roarke began to walk her down the street toward the beach. "And besides, you only asked to meet the real Hutchinson and Starsky. You didn't specify that you wanted one of them to have sex with you or fall in love with you." His accent didn't make the words any more appealing. "Now, if you'll just walk toward the ocean, you'll be returned to your place of debarkation."

Carol shrugged off Roarke's hands. "I'm going to sue," she hissed.

"No, you're not." Roarke crossed his arms over his chest. "If you do, you'll end up on some island doing menial servant work and your lawyer will have a client who was never seen again."

Carol pouted.

"Think of it this way— You can save up your money and ask for another fantasy! How wonderful that would be!"

Carol turned and began walking away toward the sea.

"Fucking fantasy," she muttered to herself. She sighed, beginning to feel the fuzz of whatever time-and-space machine fueled this phenomenon.

"Well, at least I got the definitive answer on slash," she said as she faded away.

THE END

Send comments to stargale@aol.com

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